The splintering of wood. Yelling. A hundred charging feet.
“FBI. Get your hands up,” a black clad figure yells at me. He doesn’t look real. He’s another monster in this nightmare.
My hands are yanked behind my back and encased in body-warmed metal bands. They are lifted, jerking my body up. My bare feet drag along behind me. My eyes won’t leave Grace. My neck turns and contorts trying to stay with her.
Cold, wet air seeps into my pores. My neck gives out, and my chin thuds to my chest. A soggy pink cupcake box lies on the floor, its contents ground red and white into the cream-colored carpet like blood and skin foaming at the mouth.
—
The woman doesn’t turn away as I remove my red lacey underthings. She takes them with a latex-gloved hand and places them in a plastic bag on top of the bloodstained dress and coat. She doesn’t speak. Her face is blank, as if I’m a specimen in her lab. She hands me a jumpsuit made out of a white papery material.
My body is intact. I don’t have a scratch on me. Jordan missed.
I wish he’d killed me.
Hairs are plucked from my head. My nails cut. My cheek swabbed. I’m fingerprinted and photographed and scanned. There’s been no time to cry. No time to process what’s happened. No time to scream and pound on the two-way mirror watching my every move.
A man—professional-football-player big and bulky—wearing a slicker with FBI across the back enters. The woman nods. He cuffs me and grabs my arm.
The jumpsuit rustles alongside his crisp, clipped footsteps. He walks too fast, and I stumble. His grip doesn’t loosen, and I’m dragged, scrambling to put my feet back underneath me.
“I didn’t do anything,” I whisper. It’s the first noise I’ve made since they threw me in the back of a black SUV in front of Jordan’s house. Jordan’s house. The night comes rushing back to me. I can’t breathe. I can’t stand. The force of my weight being pulled to the earth causes the agent to lose his grip. I fall and hit the floor. He hoists me back up, but not before I taste the polished linoleum on my lips.
Another SUV. The back windows are tinted so heavily that the streetlights outside glow like alien orbs in a sea of darkness.
We drive for a long time. My head aches. My stomach growls. I have to pee.
We come to a stop in front of a nondescript three-story office building surrounded by neatly trimmed hedges. The parking lot is empty. It’s still the middle of the night.
I have no idea where I am. Seattle maybe. Mexico. The moon.
Football Player sits me in a chair in a second-floor conference room. He removes the cuffs from my wrists. Before he leaves, he looks me square in the eyes, conveying the message that if I try anything, the cuffs will go right back on.
There’s nothing in the conference room. No photos of sweeping vistas floating over inspirational sayings. No coffeepot in the corner. Just a long table with two chairs. One I’m currently occupying and an empty one across from me.
I tap my fingers on the table. I have to do something to busy my mind. When I sit still, I see her dead eyes staring at the ceiling. Jordan pointing the gun at me. Drake’s snake. I tap my fingers until the tips go numb.
The door opens. A man enters. He’s short. If I were to stand up, I would tower over him. He wears a black suit with a red tie. The bald patch that takes up most of his head shines under the overhead lights. His face is long, pinched, and weaselly. He clasps a thick, legal-sized manila folder against his chest. He closes the door behind him.
“Kayla, Kayla, Kayla,” he says. “How you have disappointed me.” He shakes his head. His pointy nose is hypnotizing as it goes back and forth.
He puts the folder down in the middle of the table and sits in the other chair. He clasps his hands and leans forward. “What are we going to do with you?” His mocking tone echoes around the room. I sit back in my chair and bite my lip. This is not the time to start crying.
“My name is Weathers. AUSA Weathers. Do you know what that means?” He doesn’t give me a chance to answer. “That stands for Assistant United States Attorney.” He slaps his palm on the table. “Assistant.”
He picks up the folder and rifles through it. “You were supposed to be my secret weapon, Kayla.” He stops and my eyes meet his piercing glare. “Until you turned around and shot me in the foot.
“You seemed too good to be true. I’ve dangled pretty girls in front of Jordan before. Even some pretty boys, but he never took the bait. Then he found you all on his own and seemed to get genuinely attached.” An ache spreads through my chest, coldness surrounding my heart.
He slides a photo across the table. A young man in a starched navy-blue shirt with a matching tie. His expression is serious, but you can see the life and excitement in his eyes. It’s a younger, shinier version of Drake.
“Agent Liam Christiansen. The best of the best. Do you know how many years it took to get an agent into that house? How many towns Christiansen had to slog through, playing along as Jordan hunted for kids? The bowing and scraping he did for that little pipsqueak?
“Then Jordan walked into a dumpy little grocery store in Clairmont. Maybe it was your perky smile or the way you ran soup cans over the scanner. Who knows. But you were the answer to our prayers. Jordan was so distracted that I was able to put together a whole operation under his nose, and he never suspected a thing.”
He leans back in his chair. “I helped out. Made sure Christiansen knew where you were. Kept his eye on you. Drove you closer and closer to Jordan. Got Jordan to drop his guard, get sloppy. But you”—he waves a finger—“turned out to be more trouble than you’re worth. Accusing my agent of being a murderer? You almost blew the whole operation. I had to let that big-nosed cop in on it so he would quit poking around.
“And you didn’t stop there, did you?”
I chew the inside of my cheek. He leans back and pulls another photo out of the folder. He slaps it onto the table. I turn away. It’s Drake’s body, lying on a metal slab under cold fluorescent lights.
“Christiansen liked you. You reminded him of his younger sister. At one point he had a crisis of conscience, almost gave up everything and told you.” My throat tightens. It was the night I found Shonda—in the car when he told me to stay away from Jordan.
“But then I reminded him of what we were really after.” Weathers tosses more photos at me. Jordan at different ages.
“Jordan Edelweiss. Twenty-two. Originally from Miami, Florida. Pathological liar. Lieutenant of this man.” My breath catches as I see the man from the house staring up at me.
“Calls himself the Koi. Started off working with the Yakuza, but then decided to go freelance. He’s a nasty son of a bitch. Specializes in little girls. Doesn’t leave witnesses.” A drop of water splatters on the table. In my numbness, I glance up at the ceiling. Then I realize it dripped off my face.
“I was this close to getting him. Years of work all came down to tonight. Then you came along. You self-centered little girl.” His tone wakes me up like a slap in the face.
“I didn’t do anything!” I cry out.
He stands up and paces along the length of the conference table. “There’s only one road to that house. Only one road to get SWAT in. Only one road to get Christiansen out.”
“Oh my God.” It hits me like the building has collapsed. Finn’s car.
He perches on the table and hovers over me. “That’s right, sweetheart. You did that. I had to send in the helicopter. By the time I got my people on the ground, the Koi was already in Canadian waters. Everything that happened tonight is your fault.” He has one more photo in his hand. I know what it is. I won’t look. He slaps it down on the table. I turn away. He grips the side of my head and forces it forward. “You’re going to look at it, because you did this.”
The sob sitting at the back of my throat for hours explodes. Grace’s innocent blue eyes stare at nothing. Her pink lips are parted. Her skin is gray.
Weathers leaves me alone to beg the forgiveness of
her ghost.
Ten minutes later, he comes back, neatly gathers the photos, and places them in the folder. A crisp sheet of paper with bold black writing is set in front of me. He places a pen next to my right hand.
“This is what happens now. You will sign this statement. You will be sent to a secure location of my choice. You will be afforded basic protection. You will stay there until Jordan or the Koi are apprehended. Then you will testify. In exchange for your testimony, you will receive a reduced prison sentence. If you’re a good girl, you’ll be out by the time you’re fifty.”
I jump. Adrenaline replaces the shock that had overtaken me. The fuzziness in my head clears. “Prison? I didn’t do anything. It was a mistake, an accident. You can’t send me to prison for that. And I want a lawyer and my mom. I’m a minor. I can’t be here alone.”
He sighs. “This is the easy way, Kayla. You want the hard way? Fine. I release you. I send you out that door into a room with twenty FBI agents who have been told you killed one of their brothers. Assuming you make it out of the building, do you know what happens next? The Koi has people everywhere. They will figure out Jordan left you alive. A witness. They will hunt you down and kill you. And not just you. Your family. Your friends. Anyone you have ever cared about.”
“He barely saw me. He doesn’t know who I am. If Jordan wanted to kill me, he would have. I’ll dye my hair. They won’t be able to recognize me.”
He grabs the zipper of my jumpsuit and yanks. I flinch as it splays open, exposing the top of my breasts. “They won’t have to recognize you. You’re marked. Jordan recruited young men all over the country to be part of his network. Any of them who sees that will know.” He turns away. I forgot about the carp.
None of this would be happening if I were Paige. If I had an army of fancy lawyers and a family to search for me if I disappeared. Weathers wouldn’t treat Paige like this.
He’d never set her up in the first place.
Marie and her little bear flash through my mind. I have to protect them. I reach for the pen.
In the middle of a chunky block of text, a line catches my eye.
AFTER MY CAR BROKE DOWN, I WALKED TO THE HOUSE AND SAW JORDAN ARRIVE WITH THE LITTLE GIRL.
“Wait,” I say.
Weathers throws up his hands in exasperation. “What? What is it now, Kayla.”
I flinch at his attack, but I persevere. “The girl didn’t arrive that night. She’d been there for months. And Jordan didn’t bring her. Drake did.”
And then I see it: the slightest bounce of his eyebrow. A chink in his armor. I’ve got him.
The man never looks at Angie and Lawrence. His eyes rove around the reception, examining each individual face. I dash into the gym before he sees mine.
Someone’s turned on the lights. I make my way to the girls’ locker room at a brisk pace. Anyone watching would think I needed to go to the bathroom and not that I’m running away.
I go into the middle stall and sit down fully dressed on the toilet seat. I need a plan. A plan that won’t get anyone innocent killed.
I have the gun. But how can I use it against him? Have his blood on my hands?
Music starts up outside. The speeches are over. Lawrence and Angie will now be twirling around the wooden squares laid down over the cement to create a dance floor.
I stand up. Time for me to face the music. I care about those people. I’m going to take care of my business.
I stride out of the gym. My plan is simple. I’m going to walk over to him and give myself up. That’s it. Then we can slip away. No one will ever know. I will just be gone. Their lives will go on without me.
It’s happened before.
I step onto the cement. A mass of people sway back and forth on the crowded dance floor. I don’t see him. My heart lifts for a second. Maybe my change of appearance fooled him. Maybe I am as pale, thin, and sickly looking as I think.
Someone grabs my shoulder from behind. I whirl around, fists up and ready to fight.
Adrian raises his hands. “Whoa.” I drop my fists. I don’t want to make a scene. “Dance with me,” he says. “We need to talk.” When I don’t move, he takes my hand and leads me through the other dancers to the middle of the floor. He drops his hand to my waist, straightens his back, and raises his other arm out to the side, like we’re about to compete in professional ballroom dancing.
“My mom made me take lessons,” he says by way of explanation. It would be kind of cute, except he’s a psychopath and I’m about to give myself over to the devil.
I place a hand in Adrian’s and rest the other on his shoulder. My yellow purse bounces between us.
“Since you seem determined to always be around whether you’re wanted or not, maybe we can come up with a compromise,” Adrian whispers into my ear. “A deal.”
I jerk back. “No deals,” I say. I’m never making a deal again. Adrian’s hands are tight on me. I’m blocked in by dancers. Is this their plan? To keep me trapped between them so I can’t run?
“Whatever,” he says. “But I still wanted to tell you that what you did at the church was nice.”
“What?”
“What you did for Lawrence and Angie by taking Debbie away. That was nice.” Adrian’s deep brown eyes search my face, as if he’s seeing it for the first time. Something is happening inside his head, changing. Like maybe he’s having second thoughts. Like maybe I have a chance to get away.
The couple next to us shuffles to the side, creating a break in the bodies. There he is—the man with the sling—kneeling in front of Rosie. She smiles and coyly looks down at her feet. Then she does something that makes my heart stop. She reaches into her second basket and hands him a rose.
“Just sign the damn statement!” Weathers yells. The door opens a crack. Football Player sticks his head in. Weathers flaps a hand to shoo him away.
“Who was she?” I ask in a calm, steady tone. Every movement he makes shows me he’s losing control. “Who was Grace, really?”
“Sign the statement!”
“Who was she?”
“She was some kid. I needed a kid to get the Koi to show.” He realizes what he’s said. His eyes widen.
I push the statement away. “She was bait. You used a little girl as bait.” The smugness in my voice scares me. “I can prove she was there before last night. I have a photo.”
He charges to the door and whispers something to Football Player.
“It’s not at my house. You can toss all of Bluebird Estates and you won’t find it.” He sends Football Player off anyway. Mom is going to get the shock of her life when the FBI show up, but I can’t think about that now. I have the power in the room. And, as much as it sickens me, I’m going to use it.
“I want to go into witness protection.”
“Not happening,” he snaps.
“Where’d you get her from? Did you pick her up off the street? Offer some junkie a hundred bucks for her?” His face turns red. I’m afraid he’s going to lunge at me. “Witness protection for me and my mom.” I look straight ahead and lean back in my chair.
—
When Weathers comes back, he seems even smaller than before. His suit is wrinkled, and his face scowling. He’s followed in by a tall, lanky man in jeans and cowboy boots who’s munching on a bag of potato chips. Pieces get stuck in the thick brown comb of his mustache.
He holds the bag out to me. My mind flashes back to the soggy cupcakes ground into Jordan’s carpet. I shake my head. I’ll never be able to eat again.
Weathers sits down. “New name, new town, someone to keep an eye on you. Unofficial. Under the table.”
“Witness protection. The whole thing.” My voice is weak, less confident than before.
“No such luck, sweetheart. I told you, it’s not going to happen. It doesn’t matter what you do to me. It still won’t be approved. They don’t protect cop killers.”
“But I didn’t—”
“This is it, Kayla. The best you’re going to get.
You play by the rules, you testify against Jordan, and I’ll cut you lose. Take it or leave it.”
I don’t have the strength to argue anymore. I nod.
Weathers points to the cowboy. “This here’s my eyes and ears. He’s going to give me status reports. Tell me what you’re up to. Make sure you’re upholding your part of the bargain.”
Cowboy crunches another potato chip. “I was a US Marshal in the Witness Security Program for twenty years.”
“Was?” I ask.
“Don’t worry,” Cowboy says. “I’ll take real good care of you.”
I look at Weathers. He grins.
—
There’s a knock on the conference room door. “Um, come in?” I say. The door opens and reveals a woman holding a box of hair dye. She’s sausaged into a maroon skirt with a white blouse that ties in a giant bow in front. She doesn’t look anything like an FBI agent. She looks like someone’s secretary. A secretary who is several years past retirement age.
She holds up a pair of orange-handled office scissors. “Come with me, please.” She takes me through a maze of cubicles. No one’s in them. Weathers has cleared the building so I can make my escape. In the hallway in front of the women’s restroom, the elevator dings. When the doors open, Mom leaps out.
“Kayla!” She smothers me in a hug. I don’t say anything. I don’t know what they’ve told her. Football Player follows her out. He holds two duffel bags in one hand.
“This way, please.” He reaches out for Mom’s shoulder and leads her away, as if she’s a baby bird cradled in his giant hands.
In the white-tiled restroom, the secretary efficiently hacks away at my hair. Her face is set like the most professional hairdresser, but her shaking hands betray her. Chunks of my hair fall into the sink.
She rinses the last of the dye out of my hair, and I flip my head up, sending droplets of water flying around the bathroom. I look like a five-year-old who has been playing beauty shop. In the mirror, the secretary’s stern countenance breaks into worry.
“I used to trim my boys’ hair when they were little.”
The Truth Beneath the Lies Page 22